Sympathetic readers will, I’m sure, be delighted to know that my ordeal will soon be over.

Sympathetic readers will, I’m sure, be delighted to know that my ordeal will soon be over. My self-imposed six-week break from alcohol will soon end, and a bottle of champagne is on ice to celebrate.

In case you are wondering (and I know that there will be some of you, including “Thomas the Truth,” formerly of this fine newspaper) this bottle of bubbly is in addition to the one I keep in reserve to crack open on the death of Margaret Thatcher.

To tell you the truth, my break from booze has not been that hard to bear. I haven’t missed it at all, which is quite reassuring.

It has, however, left me with a welcome problem – what to do with the cash I have saved as a result of not buying beer, wine and similar delights.

The frontrunner for my hard-earned cash is a hardback copy of Hilary Mantel’s novel, Bring up the Bodies, the second in her planned trilogy about the life and times of Thomas Cromwell, who was Henry VIII’s ruthless chief minister.

You may be aware that the novel last week won the prestigious £50,000 Man Booker Prize.

The first novel in the series, Wolf Hall, also won the prize in 2009.

I have praised Wolf Hall in these pages before, along with another of Mantel’s works, the bleak and disturbing, Beyond Black.

To read Wolf Hall is to be transported to the court of Henry VIII with all its intrigue, horror and savage struggle for power. It is a dazzling recreation of the life of Thomas Cromwell, and by the end of the book you feel that you know him as you would know a friend or neighbour. It is a strange and rather uncomfortable feeling.

It was my joy and privilege to study the Tudor period under a fine history teacher at Barry Boys’ Comprehensive School, John Garland.

In the class with me was a chap called Ian Howell, who later became an amateur military historian with a particular interest in World War I.

I met Ian at his house last week. You may recall an article I wrote about him last week, detailing his research into a World War I soldier from the Vale, George Henry Wright.

Listening to Ian describe Wright’s plight and how he was needlessly slaughtered was like reading Mantel’s account of Cromwell’s exploits.

When history comes to life like this it teaches us many things, not all of them comforting or edifying. Sadly, it gives a chilling perspective to tragic events like the deaths of April Jones, in Machynlleth, and Karina Menzies, in Ely.

Cromwell’s story demonstrates that human nature is, at root, ruthless and selfish. There was only one person in Thomas Cromwell’s life, and that was Thomas Cromwell. That, I’m afraid, is true of most of us.

Wright’s story shows how dispensable human lives are. Wright and countless others like him were sent to the front line to replace thousands who had been cut down in their prime of their lives within just a few weeks. It was like replacing batteries in a torch, or sugar on a supermarket shelf.

There has been much soul-searching in South Wales in recent weeks, first over April Jones and now over Katrina Menzies.

The promise and hope has been that broken communities will come together in consolation and love.

In Sunday’s church service for Katrina, Rev Jan Gould said: “This grief has broken the heart of our community We will recover. And the reason we will recover is this is a strong community.

“And it is a community that cares deeply – a community that looks out for those who are vulnerable and broken.”

That may be so for a while, but only a short while.

As Mantel and, in his own way, Ian Howell, have demonstrated there has never been a prolonged period when caring communities have come together for the common good – and there probably never will be.

Next: The passing of a true gentleman

As you might expect, I spend quite a bit of my time on the street.

As I stroll through the centre of Barry, I have the pleasure of chewing the fat with some interesting characters.

One of the best was my friend and neighbour, Doug Humphrey.

We would often discuss this column, classical music and books like Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall.

Doug, a 90 year-old World War ll RAF veteran, died recently. I attended his funeral last week.

Embarrassingly for me, they played Nimrod, from Elgar’s Enigma Variations, a piece of music which invariably brings tears to my eyes. This was no exception.

Walking down town yesterday I was half expecting to see Doug, who was that rarity in today’s world: a true gentlemen.